


I Think It's Clear That No-one Wears The Pants In This Relationship

by unvarnishedtale



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-15
Updated: 2011-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:06:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unvarnishedtale/pseuds/unvarnishedtale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur, for reasons beyond his control, finds himself wearing a French maid's costume as part of a job. Eames approves, Cobb is furious, and Ariadne wants to hear the details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think It's Clear That No-one Wears The Pants In This Relationship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [immoral_crow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow/gifts).



“I must say, Arthur, that’s a particularly fetching ensemble.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re the one wearing the skirt, love.”

This is, alas, an irrefutable fact, and when this job is over and done with Arthur plans on going home to have a long, hard think about his life and his choices. It’s not that he doesn’t like his job. He loves his job, and the pay is excellent, and he has to admit that there’s rarely a dull moment in the dream-espionage business, especially when your boss is as nuts as Cobb is. It’s just there is a slight risk of losing your mind, or getting taken out by angry marks or dissatisfied customers, or due to circumstances beyond your control ending up down in dreamspace wearing a French maid’s uniform (although Arthur is not convinced that any actual French maids ever wore black vinyl corsets or skirts with this many layers of frills) and a platinum blonde wig which was knocked slightly askew in the gunfight.

There is an actual reason why it is Arthur rather than Eames who had to get frocked up for this job, it’s not just Fate with a finger on the ‘smite’ button. Something about them needing Eames’s forgery skills to impersonate the mark’s business partner while Arthur acts as a decoy. And he’d been okay with that, mostly, until the mark’s wandering hands had found their way under Arthur’s skirt and under the elastic of his…well, anyway, he could hardly be blamed for defending himself against such lechery, surely?

“Shut up. I’m not a fucking _girl_ , Eames.”

“Your lipstick’s smudged.”

And it’s been a long fucking day, okay? A long day of corset-wearing and being molested, and then being sort-of rescued by Eames, and running, and being shot at, and now they’re hiding in a labyrinthine dream of an office building while shots ring out and the whole fucking dream starts coming apart at the seams. And there Eames stands, leaning against a desk, smirking.

“Fuck you,” Arthur says again, tucking his gun into his corset and straightening his wig.

“Nah, not you, you’re all talk and no – “ he looks pointedly down at Arthur’s legs in their striped stockings, “ – trousers.”

It only takes a moment for Arthur to cross the office and pin Eames against the desk.

“Fuck you,” he growls, shoving one thigh between Eames’s legs. “You think I’m suddenly going to spread my legs for you just because I’m wearing a skirt? Huh?”

“Now, that’s more like it,” Eames says. Arthur says nothing, just jerks away for long enough to wrench Eames around and push him down face-first over the desk.

Arthur unfastens Eames’s pants unceremoniously and has them down around Eames’s knees with the speed born of practise. Then it’s up with his own skirt and he’s freeing his dick from the flimsy restraint of the lacy panties Eames had insisted he wear ‘for the sake of authenticity, darling, we don’t want a repeat of the Nash incident’, waving his hand dismissively at Arthur’s protests that underwear was not carpet. He spreads Eames wide, rubs himself against the hot crease of Eames’s ass, breathless with intent and everything is the warm electric feeling where their bodies touch, the drag of skin against skin.

“Definitely not a girl, am I, Mr Eames?” he murmurs, bending low to bite Eames’s earlobe and nudging Eames’s tight little asshole with the precome-slick head of his dick.

“No,” Eames says, soft and wrecked, and the word makes Arthur pause, makes him run a gentle hand up Eames’s back and he can feel the flex and shift of muscles under Eames’s warm skin. “Arthur…” Eames says, an almost-moan as he tilts his hips and presses back, spreads his legs wider in silent invitation. Well, then.

Arthur has to push the frothy ruffles of his skirt out of the way, the tulle crinkling under his fingers, so he can see what he’s doing, so he can watch as he pushes in and Eames just opens for him, easy and slick like sex always is down here. No need to worry about condoms and lube down in dreamspace, there’s just the hot, tight squeeze of Eames’s body around his dick.

“God, you were made for this, weren’t you?” Arthur says, and he means it rhetorically because they both know the truth of it, and Eames can’t answer anyway, his breath lost in his low, desperate groan as Arthur sinks in deep.

Arthur keeps him pinned there, face down against the desk with one of Arthur’s hands between his shoulder blades although he doubts very much that Eames would attempt to escape. Not with the way he rolls his whole body into Arthur’s thrusts, not with the way he moans and curses as Arthur fucks him, not with the way he begs ‘ _harder, harder,_ ’ up on the balls of his feet and gripping the edge of the desk for leverage.

“Bet I could make you come like this, couldn’t I, down here? Just with my dick inside you?” Arthur says, pounding into him, hand clenched tight around a sweaty fistful of his frilly skirt, the corset digging into his ribs a little. “Look at you, such a slut for it. Next time you can wear the skirt, huh?”

“God, yes,” Eames gasps as his whole body tightens and he comes all over the desk. All it takes then is a few short, greedy little thrusts, Eames’s moans jagged amidst the slap of skin on skin and the rustle of Arthur’s skirt, and Arthur comes as well.

It’s quiet, afterwards. No gunshots, just the first miles-away strains of the Little Sparrow singing and the rattle of the window panes, and then…

…and then Arthur opens his eyes in another, different office, the one he’d found for them to use as their base of operations for the job, Eames laid out next to him and just stirring. Cobb is standing with his back to them, one hand over his eyes. It’s an attitude they’re all used to be now, because, well, Cobb is a little nuts. What Arthur isn’t used to is Ariadne holding a hand over her mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to stifle her laughter.

“Seriously? SERIOUSLY?” Cobb yells, still not looking at them. “Ariadne was shot in the shoulder, we only just got out with the information we were after, and you two…I expect this from Eames – “

“Oi!”

“Shut up, Eames! And you!” He finally wheels about, although he keeps a hand over his eyes. “I thought I could trust you to be a goddamned professional, Arthur!”

“What the fuck are you – “

“ _Pants! Pants!_ ” Ariadne stage-whispers, wide-eyed, before dissolving into giggles. Arthur frowns in confusion and glances down at his pants. Which are…oh, Jesus. He shuts his eyes, but even though he can’t see the dark, damp spot spreading over the crotch of his favourite pants, it’s cooling and gross and he’s just had a fucking wet dream in front of his colleagues and he sort of wants to die right now. Eames is laughing and demanding tissues, and there’s a soft thud which sounds distinctly as though Ariadne has thrown the box of Kleenex at him.

“I always knew you were a giant perv, Eames,” she says. “Was he still wearing the, you know…”

Arthur can just imagine her waggling eyebrows. He sinks lower in his chair.

“Don’t encourage them, Ariadne!” Cobb snaps.

“A gentleman never kisses and tells, love,” Eames says.

“Yeah, but _you’re_ going to, right?”

“You wound me. I demand coffee in recompense. Were we terribly noisy?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says.

“I hate you all,” Arthur mutters, sitting up. “I have to go and…I have to go.”

He spends half an hour hiding in the bathroom, mostly hiding, but also trying to clean himself up until he gives in and untucks his shirt because at least that will disguise the stain a little.

“I must say, that was delightfully unprofessional of you,” says a voice from the doorway.

“Yeah, well, it’s never happening again. Not on the job.”

“Not even if I wear the dress next time?”

And Arthur wants to be mad at Eames, he really does. He’s never behaved like that while he was working before, and he blames Eames more or less completely for the lapse. But that’s just the problem, isn’t it? Because Eames is…well, he’s Eames.

“I’ll even sit on your lap,” Eames says, coming in and shutting the door behind him, smiling. And Arthur, because nobody else is watching, lets himself smile back, and leans in for a kiss.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says.

“Oh, you can hold me to anything you like.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for immoral_crow's birthday, because she wanted French maid!Arthur topping Eames like a champ and I can deny her nothing.


End file.
